


Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

by LittleStingrayQueen



Category: Troy (2004)
Genre: Complete, F/M, First Time, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:29:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3752830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleStingrayQueen/pseuds/LittleStingrayQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A feisty conquest that's too much for another man to handle is Achilles' for the taking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

**Author's Note:**

> A shamelessly self-indulgent piece of smut scribbling. But, really, what straight female older than the age of 14 hasn't thought about wild sex with Brad Pitt?
> 
> Enjoy!

Achilles heard the shuffling of clumsy steps outside his tent and would have assumed the stumbles belonged to a less than sober soldier if not for the ragged breaths that cut through the night silence between footfalls. Moving to peek through the tent’s flaps, he could all but hear the furious thudding of a frightened heart.

Ill fitting soldier’s armor was making its awkward way across the sand just steps away, a younger brother in older brother’s breastplate and greaves perhaps who was indeed inebriated. The helmet atop the youth’s head tipped forward, covering his eyes, and he shoved it back forcefully with one hand, forgetting the nose piece which smashed against his nose. Hands flew up to cover the wounded spot and remove the helmet entirely, and a high pitched swear that attested to his age accompanied the whisper of the helm dropping into the sand.

Achilles arched one golden eyebrow. The wearer of the ill fitting armor was not a boy at all. The oversized head covering had hid besmudged, but most definitely female, soft facial features. She replaced the helmet before moving again, and he waited. In an attempt to keep to the shadows, her path brought her within reach of his tent. With little effort, he thrust his arm between armor and flesh, dragging her in by her waist and tossing her gracelessly onto his pallet.

“The hell – ” The angry outburst was cut off by Achilles palm knocking the loose helmet from her head. Half a startled gasp was all he received in reaction before her eyes narrowed. Her hands fisted in the furs lining his bed.

“I should ask the same of you. That armor’s not yours, pet. Where’s your owner?”

“Dead! And you will be, too, if you don’t let me leave.”

“Oh really?” Achilles turned his back to the girl and prodded the dying fire pit back to life.

A steady hand that didn’t belong with the racing heart and heaving chest of a terrified captive held the knife that bit into his lower back. “I mean it, Myrmidon, I’ll sever your spine right here unless you swear to me you’ll let me go.”

Achilles suppressed a chuckle and peered back at her over his shoulder. “What makes you think you’ll have the time?”

She opened her mouth to retort, and he whipped around, snatching first the wrist of her knife hand and then her left thigh. It was enough of a grip for him to toss her back onto the pallet, and he startled her enough to launch himself on top of her and secure both her hands above her head.

She kicked at him, and the blow narrowly missed his groin. She shifted her hold on the knife and sliced at the hand that held her wrists. He swore and knocked the weapon away, then just managed to arch out of the way of another kick. He dropped his lower body onto hers, pinning her.

“Bastard,” she snarled and spit in his face. He wiped the spittle away.

Achilles laughed. “You think I’ve not heard that before?” He lowered his head to touch his forehead to hers, and she snapped at him, teeth clicking together loudly near his top lip. He yanked his head back, but didn’t stop chuckling.

“By the gods, you’re a wild creature. What’s your name, daughter of Troy?”

She pressed her lips into a tight line.

Achilles risked bending down near her face again. “I admire your courage,” he whispered, lips brushing her cheek, hot breath washing over her ear, “Please give me the honor of knowing who you are.” He didn’t imagine her quick intake of air.

“Bryony,” she exhaled softly.

“Bryony of Troy,” he murmured, stroking the insides of her wrists with his thumbs. “I suppose my next question is what are you doing in my camp?” He started to press a kiss to her cheek, but she turned her head away.

“Your camp?” She arched up one eyebrow.

He hadn’t charmed her yet. “Yes, my camp. I am Achilles, king of the Myrmidons.”

She rolled to face him with an incredulous look, and her eyes were only wide with surprise for a moment when their noses touched. He maintained the contact, careful not to jar the bruise spreading across her nose’s bridge. “And now, Bryony, you owe me your identity.”

“I’m a prostitute. Your man has lousy taste in war prizes.”

“You’re lying.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Look at me and tell me you’re a prostitute.”

She’d been staring over his head as best she could, but then she dropped her gaze back to his. “I am. A. Prostitute,” she repeated for him.

“Still lying.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Don’t you want to know how I know?”

“Fine, great Lord Achilles, how do you know?” Another roll of her eyes accompanied the acquiescence.

He slid a hand under the armor and what remained of her tunic and fondled her breast softly. She started to squirm away; then froze. Achilles spread his fingers, covering the maximum amount of skin and dragged his hand down her stomach. She sucked in a breath. Her heart raced, and the lightly defined muscles of her stomach fluttered under his calloused palm.

“Definitely not a prostitute.” He pressed his face into the hollow of her throat. “In fact,” he licked from her collar bone to her chin, “I would say, virgin.” He flexed the fingertips resting on her belly.

Achilles felt her knees brush his legs. The furs shifted when she dug her feet in, trying to find leverage to push herself out from under him. She whipped her face as far from his as she could. “I’ll kill you,” she whispered. “I’ll kill you just like the other.”

He let go of her wrists to lift himself onto his forearms and look down at her. She winced away from him when he reached to brush back her hair from her face. He withdrew his hand. “I promise to be gentle.”

She snorted.

He ducked his head and nuzzled her ear. She placed both her hands on his chest, but the force behind them was half hearted. He sucked at the juncture of her jaw and throat; then kissed the spot. “I’d never hurt you.” He mouthed her earlobe.

Achilles shifted a knee between Bryony’s legs. She didn’t resist, but when he settled himself between them, she grunted and tried to press herself further from him, into the blankets and pillows. He pushed a hand through her hair. “How can I ease your discomfort, my small Trojan?”

“Get your fat Greek ass off me.”

Achilles bent his head, concealing a smile behind his shaggy mane of blonde hair. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to crush you.” He backed off her, and Bryony immediately took the opportunity to scramble away, eyeing Achilles uneasily. She sat on her knees, smoothing the remains of her tunic over her thighs and readjusting the weight of the chest plate on her shoulders. Achilles sat crossed legged a comfortable distance away, elbow on one knee, chin in his palm. “You really are something to behold,” he studied her with his head cocked to one side, “Even with men’s armor to conceal your curves, you are truly exquisite.” He leaned toward her, and she leaned away. “Perhaps more so, if your tale about killing one of my men is true.” He laughed. “Even if it is not, I would love to know how you came upon on that,” he gestured the breast plate.

“I told you. I killed him.”

“And how did you do that, little warrior?” Achilles inched closer to her. “Did you plunge his own knife into his chest while he slept?” He laid his hand on the armor, where her heart was hidden beneath. “Or did you slit his throat?” Achilles dragged the tip of index finger from one of Bryony’s collar bones to the other. Her breath hitched in response to the calloused caress. Somehow they were nose to nose again.

“You really want to know? How I killed him?” She caught the hand that had been wandering toward the chest plate’s leather ties.

“I am quite curious, yes.”

She didn’t relinquish the forearm in her hold, which her fingers could barely wrap around. “We were sitting on his pallet much like this. He was trying to seduce me. I let him believe he was succeeding. And I took his arm like this – ” Locking her eyes with Achilles’ as she did so, Bryony lifted his arm, palm up, to her face, “and then I bit him, dug my teeth into his flesh until it broke and then I ripped through the veins.”

“And will you do the same to me, Bryony of Troy?” Achilles husked. “Reduce yourself to such carnality in order to escape me?”

The heat in his voice tingled down from the base of her neck to her tail bone. Bryony’s throat went dry, and she struggled to answer simply, “I might.”

Achilles leaned in ever closer to her. The hand not in her hold was sliding up her thigh. “Show me, Bryony. Show me how you allegedly killed my comrade in arms.” Achilles forearm rolled from limp fingers. Bryony couldn’t drag her stare from his eyes, and she was drowning in the heady smell of him, a mixture of sweat and sand and sea that she hadn’t noticed before. He pulled her flush against him and crushed his mouth to hers. Her hands flew to his shoulders, but instead of pushing him away, they ran up his neck and tangled in his hair, if for any purpose then to pull him impossibly closer. His fingers scrabbled over the rough leather armor. They broke apart, both gasping for air.

“As much appeal as your killing men and stealing armor holds, this simply must go.”

She nodded agreement, even as her mouth chased after his, and he fumbled with the leather ties. The breast plate was tossed off the pallet into the sand carelessly, and the remainder of Bryony’s tunic was removed with similar haste. The small hands on Achilles shoulders worked to shove off the light robe he wore.

“Easy, little warrior,” he chuckled, “the ties are here.” He pressed her fingers against the knots on his chest.

She trembled and studied her hands closely as she tugged the first knot loose, then the second. Achilles loosed the third himself, and with his other hand caught her chin and lifted her face in order to kiss her. Kissing was clearly preferable to undressing; Bryony wrapped her arms around his neck, closing the space that had opened between them, pressing her soft belly and breasts to his chiseled abdomen and chest.

Achilles made a low rumbling sound of appreciation, stroked down her sides and then her back before embracing her tightly. He peppered her throat and shoulder with kisses and light nips, then eased her off his lap so he could shift onto his knees, shrugging off his undone robe in the same motion.

The break in contact allowed the intensity of Bryony’s arousal to ebb, and she hesitated when Achilles offered her his hand to draw her back to him. “Are you frightened?” he asked, helping her to straddle his thighs, leaning in so their noses and foreheads touched. Her eyes were shut tight, and she nodded slowly. “My beautiful little Trojan,” he whispered in her ear, nuzzling her temple, “I assure you, you needn’t be.” He thumbed her bottom lip, then holding her chin, demanded, “Open your eyes.” He kept her gaze locked with his, and with a guiding hand on her hip, lowered her onto him.

Her hands flew to his shoulders, nails biting into them, and she hissed out through her teeth. The harsh exhale was broken by a squeal of discomfort, and Achilles surged forward to catch her mouth with his own, kissing her deeply and caressing away the tension in her thighs and stomach. She was loathe to let him pull away, and she maintained her stranglehold around his neck. Uneven pants washed over Achilles cheek and ear, and he reached up to stroke her hair and massage the back of her head. “Easy, little one,” he turned his head to kiss her sweat soaked cheek, “the worst is over. I promise, it only gets better from here.”

“It better.” Her fingers tangled in his hair, and her voice was something between a growl and a gasp. 

Achilles waited patiently for her ragged breathing to relax and her pounding heart to slow before lifting her a little in order to thrust up into her. She inhaled sharply, whined, and held tighter around his neck. Achilles stilled. “Do I hurt you?”

At first she merely shook her head, then managed to squeak out, “No.”

“That’s good.” He kissed her cheek again, and continued to press kisses to her shoulder and throat while murmuring soothing encouragements and praise. He maintained the slow, rocking, gradually increasing stroke length until Bryony pushed back. This earned from Achilles a throaty growl, and his thinly worn composure wore ever thinner. He thrust up harder and instead of a frightened whine, the motion was received with a low moan.

There was an awkward moment of off beat lifting and pushing, before rhythm was found, and then many more moments of the pleasurable wandering of hands and pressing of bodies before Bryony shuddered to completion, her body clenching around Achilles and drawing him over as well. Her trembling lasted far longer than Achilles recovery. He shushed her gently and ran his hands up and down her back.

He waited until her shaking had subsided before he laid her on the pallet, spooning himself against her back and pulling a blanket over them. Bryony rolled over, nestling her head under his chin and pressing her palms to his chest. Achilles draped a possessive arm around her and kissed her hair.

۩

Bryony lay on her stomach with her arms crossed under her chin, facing away from Achilles. She could feel his eyes on her bare shoulders, and so spoke. “Are you going to let me go?”

“I was considering it.” He lowered himself onto the pallet, kneeling over top of her. He kissed the back of her neck, then the juncture of her neck and shoulder. “But I couldn’t possibly let you go while still injured.” He trailed his fingertips over purpling smudges of bruises and scrapes, from her shoulder blades to where the swell of her rear was covered by the blanket. “Certainly none of these are of my causing?”

“No, those are the marks of your man, the first to try and claim me. They are a small price to pay for all his blood.”

“Still holding to that story, are you?”

“It is true.”

“Of course.” He brushed back her hair so that he could suckle at her throat. She sighed and turned her head to allow him access. He caressed down her sides, fingers just tickling her breasts and stomach.

“Achilles!” a voice at the door interrupted.

Achilles swore under his breath and backed off Bryony. “Stay put, I won’t be long,” he promised.

Eudorus and Patroclus waited outside his tent, the former frowning, aggravated wrinkles forming on his forehead, with his arms crossed over his chest; the latter’s arms were also crossed, but he wore an amused smirk instead.

“Erastos is dead.”

Achilles did not recall the name, and thus its owner must not have been of any significance. “So? Men die of battle wounds in the night, of what importance is this one?” He all but stomped his foot in irritation, smoothed back his hair, and glanced at his tent.

Patroclus and Eudorus exchanged looks, neither recalling their leader taking a woman for the night.

“He was murdered, sir, his arm was ripped open, as if he was attacked by a wild dog. We fear the creature may still be loose somewhere in the camp,” Eudorus explained. Patroclus brought his hand to his mouth, as if to sneeze, but only a choked sound came out. His shoulders shook.

Achilles turned back to face his tent.

Wrapped in the furs from his pallet stood Bryony, clearly visible, peering through the tent flaps.

Patroclus noticed the girl, and his suppressed laughter cut off abruptly. His eyes went wide. Achilles made a dismissing gesture at Eudorus. “Just… keep watch for the beast.”

A puzzled Eudorus left to relay the instructions to the men; Patroclus followed his cousin back to the tent. “Is that her? Erastos’ war prize?” he asked in an awe inspired whisper.

Achilles stepped in front of his cousin and fixed him with a hard stare. “It is, and you’d be wise, boy, to tell me what you know of her.”

Patroclus shied away from his displeased elder. “Only what I overheard from the other men last night. Erastos was bragging. She’s the maidservant and guard to a princess whose father wouldn’t allow her a male protector. She killed men in yesterday’s battle, fierce as an Amazon; it took four men to overpower her. They told Erastos to leave her for dead, that she would slit his throat while he slept, maybe even while he was awake.” Patroclus had lifted onto his toes, trying to peek over his cousin’s shoulder and see the fearsome female warrior again. Bryony had already disappeared back into the tent’s recesses. “Did you really, cousin? Did she succumb willingly to you? Or did she fight you, need to be tamed?”

Achilles snorted. He turned for the tent. “You should have told Eudorus you knew it wasn’t a wild animal.”

The chastisement was half hearted, and Patroclus knew it. He chased Achilles to the tent’s entrance. “May I meet her?”

Achilles sighed, but tossed the tent flap open wide enough to be a clear invitation for Patroclus to enter.

Bryony had since located his robe from the night before. The billowy material of the much too large garment still left her barely decent. She was sitting on the pallet examining Achilles knife, and didn’t look up when the two men entered.

“Good morning, Patroclus,” she greeted.

The boy froze where he stood, and the glare Achilles gave him would have made any other soldier fear for their life. “How does she know you, cousin?”

“I could hardly forget the boy’s awkward blushing reaction, clearly having never seen a woman’s flesh before,” she explained, then looked at Patroclus, “’Achilles must not share his women with his younger cousin’ is what the other men said, I believe, while they ogled my toplessness. Pigs, all of them. Your cousin at least had the decency to turn red and squirm away.” Bryony shrugged.

Patroclus’ blush was ripening anew, his mouth gaping like he wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. Achilles shooed the boy out.

“Forgive me, Bryony, if I’d’ve known the men had someone of your status – ”

“You’d’ve hauled me to your own tent, been equally amused, and the sex would not have been as sweet. Let us be glad we met under the circumstances we did.” She was dragging her finger around the blade, applying dangerously more pressure with each frustrated word.

In one fluid motion, Achilles swiped the weapon from her hands. Bryony glared up at him with narrowed eyes, expression very similar to the first he’d seen on her.

“I apologize for their treatment of you all the same.”

“Women prizes are a reality of war. I am a soldier. I understand that.” Without the knife, Bryony had taken to tugging at a loose thread from the robe’s sleeve.

Achilles grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. “I definitely preferred you whimpering, little warrior.” Bryony didn’t even wince. “Now, silently accept the damned apology.”

She ripped her face from his hold. 

Achilles stomped to a chest opposite the foot of the pallet and flung it open. He withdrew a balled up article of clothing and hurled it at Bryony. “Those will fit you. You’re free to leave!” he snarled.

“I will!” she screamed back, yanking his robe off and hastily replacing it with the new garments. She stormed out of the tent whilst still knotting the tunic’s top most ties. Achilles caught her arm and flung her around to face him before she was even a dozen steps away. He crushed his mouth to hers.

Bryony allowed the bruising kiss for only a moment before shoving Achilles away. “Stop it!” she hissed, first glancing up at Achilles, then down casting her eyes. “You’re making a fool of yourself in front of your men.” She stared knowingly behind her, then met his eyes again. “I’m not worth the loss of their respect.”

“It will take much more than a lovers’ quarrel for my men to stop fearing me.” The corner of his mouth started to quirk up in a smile.

“You are not my lover.”

The traces of his smile vanished. She pulled her arm free and started to walk away. Achilles easily caught up to her. “I’ll walk you to the edge of the camp. My Myrmidons will do you no harm, but I cannot say the same for the rest of the Greeks.”

As if she could not defend herself. “Alright.”

Bryony felt hesitant fingers on her hip, and hadn’t realized Achilles had put his arm around her. She looked up at him, but he did not look back. She allowed the contact all the same, only slipping away when they passed the last Greek tent.


End file.
